Fowl
by MedliR
Summary: A little fic inspired by a totally off-topic conversation on the Viva La Reefie forum. It has nothing to do with Reeve or Yuffie, though. It's about Reno. And a really bad encounter with, well, something.


Fowl

A/N: This lovely little bit comes solely from the Viva La Reefie forums and a conversation about funny things language students say courtesy of Don'tCallMeBones. Thanks, Bones! Well, that and the fact that Reno won't leave me alone. He's been demanding a public fic of his own, and as I _should_ be writing the next chapter of Reminiscence, I decided to be a little mean to him in this one. Don't worry, though, he wasn't hurt that badly. Maybe now that he has his story, he'll shut up for a while and I can write the next chapter of Reminiscence. This is a one-shot fic, but I'm not averse to giving Reno and his fellow Turks more time on the page if anyone wants more.

The order of the Spanish adjective and noun is intentional. It's kind of part of the overall joke. So is the title.

Now for the standard disclaimer: I do not own FFVII. Square Enix does. I'm just borrowing their characters.

Without further ado, on with the fic!

* * *

"Look, I _know_ you little rodents understand me! I _heard_ you say 'Here comes the redhead' not two minutes ago, so why don't you just damn well answer my question in a language that makes sense instead of just insulting me!"

Reno's aggravation didn't faze the little group of ragged Costa del Sol children. Instead, it touched off another round of laughter and the singsong chant that Reno was beginning to hate:

"No, no, te tiro un pato! Te tiro un pato! Te tiro un pato! No, no, te tiro un pato!"

"Holy!" Reno's mouth twisted into an angry snarl. He felt his hand clench around his EMR hard enough to cause it and his nails to bite into his palm. _I must not use my mag rod on children. I must not use my mag rod on children. I must not use my mag rod on children_.

He had been asking the same question to the dingy runts they had been told could help them for planet knew how long, just loitering around in the back of the butcher shop, and the temptation to bash the brats with the weapon was getting nearly unbearable. So was the smell of butchered bird.

"Okay, let's try this one more time. Where can I find this El Grande Queso guy? Me and my friend over there need to talk to him."

Apparently, something Reno said was downright hilarious, as this attempt to talk to the kids netted him one of the loudest bursts of laughter yet, and another round of "No, no, te tiro un pato!"

"What the _hell_ does that mean?!" Reno exploded, causing the children to laugh even harder. Reno resorted to deep breathing, closing his eyes, and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Normally, Reno loved Costa del Sol. Normally, a trip to Costa meant many fancy alcoholic combinations, lots of skimpy-bikini clad girls, and copious amounts of sunscreen. Reno burned like spilled sugar syrup in an oven. He turned as red as his hair, something he had found out the hard way, and he still hadn't lived it down. It was seven years ago.

But right now, there was no alcohol, a fact Reno cursed, there were no women, and he could feel his scalp starting to blister. He did not want to be here. He wanted to be back in Edge in a bar with a drink and some damn cloud cover.

But no, he had to be here, in Costa, in the heat and the sun, with Rude, without sunscreen, and on, in his opinion, a wild goose chase. He was not amused.

The only reason they were in Costa in the first place was to check out the rumors of some new crime boss called El Grande Queso, who was supposedly a mean, nasty big guy no one had ever really seen. He supposedly ran guns, pushed drugs, and specialized in hit lists. Reno was of the not-so-humble opinion that the guy didn't really exist; that he was just some story that some little group of low-level thugs thought up to scare people, kind of like that blood-sucking goat thingy they told you about on tours out here to try to freak you out. The only reason they were even looking for him in Costa was because, Rufus had figured, with a name like "El Grande Queso," the guy had to be Costan.

Reno was seriously debating killing Rufus when he got back to Edge, still healing or no. Why him? There had to be somebody who spoke Costan in Shinra. There just had to be. Or at least someone these kids wouldn't make fun of. Based on the only thing they had said that he could understand, Reno was _sure_ "te tiro un pato" was a reference to his hair.

Reno sighed again and opened his eyes, shooting a glare at Rude, who was waiting by the helicopter. Of course Rude would get to stay with the helicopter. Just because he always dressed sharp, and was bigger than Reno - both factors that, according to Rude, were likely to frighten the little rats - Reno got slapped with the task of talking to the kids.

Removing his fingers from his nose and forcing his other hand to relax its' death-grip on the mag rod, Reno leveled the grinning street urchins with a focused stare. "Let's do this one more time. One last, final time. And I'll speak slowly this time, since your little undereducated brains obviously don't know how to talk properly. Do. you. know. where. we. can. find. this. El. Grande. Queso. dude?"

The kids stayed silent, for the first time since he had approached them, and Reno felt his mind allow him to start to hope. The three biggest boys looked at each other, before the scruffiest one, who apparently was the ringleader for the little gabbling group, grinned brightly at Reno and said, very calmly and politely, "No, no, Mister Redhead Turk, te tiro un pato!"

Reno ground his teeth together and started to literally shake. "Fine! That's it! I'm done. I hope you all rot, you hear me? I hope this comes back and bites you in the ass!"

Reno spun around on his heel and stalked back to Rude, accompanied by a renewal of "te tiro un pato," switching the mag rod on and off, the expression on his face fit to kill. "Come on, Rude. We're going. If Rufus wants to know about this guy so badly, he can come himself. These kids won't say anything to me but 'No, no, te tiro un pato!'" he mimicked. "What the _hell_ does that mean, anyway?" Reno shouted, throwing his hands into the air and reaching for the door to the helicopter.

No sooner had he finished speaking then did the laughter turn raucous and the carcass of a duck came whirling through the air to hit him solidly in the back of the head, allowing him, face first, to get closely acquainted with the body of the chopper.

Reno had one hand over his mouth, trying to stem the flow of blood from his bitten lip, when Rude, hands solidly attached to the back of Reno's shirt to keep him from lunging at the children, now falling over themselves laughing while still chanting 'Te tiro un pato,' told him, "No, no, I throw a duck at you."

Rude didn't move fast enough to avoid Reno's sudden change in trajectory.


End file.
